


It's Only Forever

by nycgrl



Category: French History RPF, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Historical RPF, Royalty RPF, The Vampire Chronicles
Genre: AU, Attraction, Blood, Canon Divergence, Death, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Torture, Historical AU, Historical Characters - Freeform, Lestat isn't a major character, Mentions of incest, OOC Historical Characters, Past Relationships, Sexual Content, Smut, The Capets of France, There's a lot of blood in this, Torture, Vampires, Violence, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nycgrl/pseuds/nycgrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Life wouldn't be so precious, dear, if it never had an end."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Vitam

_France, 1218_

 

She struggled desperately against the arms that held her captive, her dark hair scraggly, damp, and hanging in her face. It was horribly humid, even now, after midnight, the air hot with the flames from hundreds of torches. She could feel cold sweat beading on her forehead, and running between her shoulder blades.  
 The dress she wore was shredded, the once beautiful brocade torn to pieces. Barely able to keep her footing, she was forced against the wooden platform of the guillotine in the palace square, throwing her hands out to brace her descent.  
  
Gritting her teeth, she raised her head, meeting the steely, unforgiving glare of Sauvageau, the King’s Advisor. A man she had always despised, the man who had tried to rape her and had failed, and was now doing everything possible to extract revenge on her. Which in this case involved conspiring to afflict her, then spreading rumours throughout the populace, until malcontent had ended in this, a potentially quite gruesome finale.  
  
“You..” She hissed. “You will burn in Hell for this.”  
  
“Ah, but _ma cherie_ , I’m not a creature of the devil. It’s you who will burn in flame for eternity.” He sneered, and she spat at his feet.  
  
“Rest assured, if I go, I will drag you down with me.”  
  
“I rather doubt you’ll be afforded the opportunity.”  
  
Dragged by the scruff of her neck like a kitten, she was deposited at the feet of her father, at the feet of the King. He looked pained, looking over his daughter with the last hopes of redemption for her.  
  
If she could pass the populace’s tests, she would live. If not, he had no choice but to condemn her.  
  
  
“Papa..” She pleaded. “Please, don’t make me go through this.”  
  
Tears were rolling down her face as he embraced her tightly, hugging as though he never wanted to let her go.  
  
“You must, Elanor. If you are not given the tests, the populace will murder you anyways, out of fear.”  
  
“Papa, you know I can’t.” She whispered, voice breaking. “You know what he did to me.”  
  
His response was cut short as hands clamped around her arms, dragging her back towards the wooden platforms.  
  
“Papa!”  
  
She fought and thrashed as they forced her back against the post, binding her wrists behind her, then brought a chain made from pure silver.  
She barely had time to realise what it was before her body was gripped with blinding, spasming pain, tearing an unearthly scream from her throat, the skin it touched instantly reddening and blistering under the metal.  
  
It was suddenly ripped away, and her knees gave out, her back sliding against the rough post, her arms twisted behind her, as she sank to the floor.  
Her breaths were weak, gasping pants, her eyes clamped shut, as she heard heavy footsteps before her. A tear managed to squeeze its way out, but she was forced unceremoniously to her feet, displaying the burns to the people, who only screamed more.  
  
The pain and distraction had faded the rudimentary concealing spells placed over her, and her fangs would be visible if she opened her mouth. She kept her scarlet eyes downcast, until she recognised the boots that stepped in front of her, shielding her partially.  
She turned her gaze upward, finding her distraught father before her.  
  
“I’m so sorry, Elanor.”  
  
“I suppose we’ll really find out if all the stories are true.” She replied, with a tiny, sad quirk of the mouth.  
  
“Peace be with you..”  
  
She was dragged backwards, forced onto her back, staring straight up into the darkened sky. Her gaze found a bright star, twinkling back at her, and she kept her eyes fixed on it, as she felt the sharp point of a wooden stake pressed into her chest.  
  
She didn’t see what they used to drive it in, but she felt the pain explode on contact.  
  
Odd, though, how much more her transformation had seemed to hurt.  
  
The brightness of the star was fading, a dribble of blood sliding from the corner of her mouth, but it didn’t seem to hurt quite as much as it should have.

  
Everything was going black— but maybe, just maybe, if she had any amount of luck at all, she’d find that the stories were true.


	2. In Mortem

The stale air of the royal graveyard was still, the grounds dark and silent in the dead of night, disrupted only a black-cloaked figure. It slipped between the ornate marble coffins in the basilica containing the bones of long dead kings and queens, the only memories of what they once looked like the carved effigies on the lids. The destination, the newest addition to the dead, was housed in the northwest corner, and the figure paused to stare at the image atop the tomb .

The likeness of a seventeen year old girl, clothed in an ornate marble dress, her white marble hands folded over her chest grasping a orb and sceptre, her marble hair topped with a carved diadem.

It had been twenty years since the famous incident, the midnight execution of a princess turned vampire. The princes had returned from England, horrified to find their beloved little sister housed there, in the back of the basilica, nothing more than a memory now.

How long until she was forgotten completely?

Nothing but a legend.

How long until that too, was forgotten?

The silence of the basilica was broken by the grinding of stone as the lid of the coffin was labouriously moved to the side, exposing the interior. Unsure what exactly would be found within, the figure cautiously peered inside, a quiet gasp escaping under the hood of the cloak, as the dim moonlight shone over perfect ivory skin and dark hair.

Twenty years she’d been contained here. Should have rotted away to nothing but bones by now.

Instead, the girl looked the same as she had twenty long years ago. She could be merely sleeping, were it not for the absence of the rise and fall of her chest. And the wooden stake driven cleanly between her ribs.

Gloved hands reached out carefully, grasping the head of the stake. A sharp jerk upward and the stake came free with a sickening sound, smeared with dark blood.

The stake fell to the ground, forgotten, and the figure lowered their hood, staring wide eyed as the gaping wound in her chest slowly began to heal itself over, until the flesh was as smooth and unblemished as it ever had been.

There was a brief moment in which nothing happened, as he watched her face apprehensively.

Then her scarlet eyes flashed open.

A loud gasp for breath escaped her as she sat bolt upright, clutching her chest. Her expression was wild as she looked around furiously, eyes narrowing at the sight of the coffin she sat in. After a moment, her fiery gaze landed on the light-haired man kneeling beside her, looking him over.

“Who are you?”

Her voice was hoarse but still demanding, and he sent her a wry look.

“Come now, El, has it really been that long, for you to forget me?”

She squinted at him, head tilted slightly at the nickname.

“Philip?” She murmured.

“Welcome back, sister.”

Her arms were around him in a second, embracing him tightly.

“How long have I been here?” She asked finally, pushing back slightly to look at him.

“Twenty years to the day.”

“Why did you bring me back?”

He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.

“It was time.”

She licked her lips, glancing through the open beams of the side of the abbey.

“Sauvageau.” She muttered, eyes narrowed and sparkling dangerously.

“What of him?”

“Does he yet live?”

“He does.”

“Good.” She replied simply, swinging her legs over the edge of the coffin.   

“I would have thought you’d have wished him dead.” Philip replied in confusion, and she stood, glancing back over her shoulder at her brother with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“Believe me, Frère, I do. But I intend to kill him myself.”

 

Philip lent her his cloak, which she wrapped herself in as he replaced the heavy marble lid over her coffin, and she followed him from the dark abbey, through the city streets. Despite the late hour, there was still life in the city; a bonfire going in the square, people still straggling throughout the streets.

The guards surprisingly opened the palace gates to them without question, and as the doors of the castle closed behind them, she felt Philip’s hand on her back, guiding her forward.

“Welcome home, Princess.”

Her gaze trailed over the familiar interior, a smile quirking her lips.

“Do what you will to Sauvageau, good riddance to the man, but you should make sure to see Father as soon as you can. He’s missed you.”

“Has he?” She replied absently, still taking in her surroundings, and he gave a short laugh.

“You were always his favourite, El.”

 

She sought her old chambers, after promising her brother she’d return to find him as soon as she dealt with the Advisor, and she found her rooms hadn’t been touched, no doubt at the insistence of the King. Opening the wardrobe, she found a dress to change into. Just a thin white underdress of no importance, as she knew it wouldn’t stay pristine for long.

Her wand was still where she had hidden it, under a loose stone in the floor, and she retrieved it, feeling the familiar humming of magic through her as it was again in her hands.

She discarded Philip’s cloak, as it was far too large on her— she must remember to return it to him— and found one of her own, pulling the hood up over her face, before departing the room in a swirl of fabric.

The chamber she sought was a floor below hers, and she unlocked the doors easily with a flick of her wand, then grasped the handles and threw the doors open with a loud crash, stalking through. A soundproofing charm covered the room with a silent spell as she shoved the doors shut behind her, and her chin raised as she looked over the man, awoken by the crash, as he stared wild-eyed at her.

“Who the- get out now, or I shall call the guards!”

“Call all you like. It didn’t do me any good, and it will not help you, either.”

“What— who are you?!” He demanded, and she smirked, reaching up to lower her hood. His eyes went wide and his face paled as he gaped at her like a fish out of water.

“That’s not possible— you’re dead! You’ve been dead for twenty years!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, Sauvageau. I died the night you sicced that creature on me. You thought you were extracting revenge on me, but really, you helped me. I am immortal now. I cannot die. A stake through my heart merely put me into a comatose state— once removed, I returned to the way I had been.”

He looked nearly apoplectic with fear and anger now, and she smirked, pulling the cloak from her shoulders and draping it neatly over the foot of his bed.

“I told you I would drag you to Hell with me. As it so appears, I am not going anywhere anytime soon, but you, dear _monsieur,_ are another story entirely. It’s my turn now. Get up.”

 

Morning rose over the city, and the populace of the castle was beginning to go about their normal daily routines, unaware that anything was happening within the Advisor’s room, as all seemed to be silent from the outside. Inside, however, was a different story.

Elanor was sitting on the stone floor in her white dress, legs stretched out in front of her, her hands, bare feet, and dress all smeared with blood. The man she was casually holding pinned against the wall ten feet up was hardly recognisable from his appearance the previous night, he was so wounded and bloodied.

She regarded him musingly, smirking as he pleaded weakly, dropping her hand and letting him crash to the floor as the magic holding him in place vanished. A soft groan was the only indication he’d survived the fall, and she stood, sauntering over to him.

“Please..” He managed to get out, spitting blood onto the stone floor.  

“Please what?” She snapped. “You ignored my pleas when you had that creature attack me. When he turned me into a monster, all because I fought you when you tried to rape me. When you turned the entire populace against me for your own crimes and had me imprisoned, beaten, and dragged into the square, then had me tortured, before you had me executed.”

She scoffed, looking over him with a sneer.

“You showed me no such mercy. Why should I show any to you?”

She knelt beside him, trailing a sharp fingernail over his throat and slicing a thin cut over the skin.

“I intend to torture you as long as possible. Believe me when I say this is the least of what I could do to you. I wish I could, but you would likely die too early, and I am so enjoying watching you writhe and scream.”

She pressed down with her nail, blood beading up and dripping to the floor, then leaned close to place her mouth next to his ear.

“If you think you can appeal to my pity, to have me kill you now and put you out of your misery, you are wrong. This is the least of what you deserve. I shall enjoy watching you die, watching the life leave your eyes, and your soul banished to Hell, but that time has not yet come.”

 

Eventually, though, even an immortal’s interest wore thin. Rising from the floor, she reached for the object concealed in the folded fabric of her cloak. Sauvageau was barely able to keep his eyes open by then, holding onto the last fleeting threads of consciousness, but they widened ever so slightly at the sight of the sharpened wooden stake, stained dark with blood. Her blood.

Using her foot to nudge him onto his back, she pressed the wooden tip to the centre of his chest, grinding it down slightly so blood beaded up around the point.

“Tell me, Sauvageau, was it really worth it? All this? It’s what you deserve in return for what you did to me. I hope you think it was worth it.”

The tip of the stake drove deeper into his skin, and he made a pathetic hint of a moan in response to the pain and her words.

“Burn in Hell, bastard.”

 

When the servants were sent to look for Sauvageau, to find why the man hadn’t reported to the King yet that morning, they were greeted with a gruesome sight upon entry to his chambers.

The man had been stripped bare and castrated, portions of his flesh in tattered ribbons, a solid wooden stake driven messily through his heart. The untorn portions of his flesh were carved with words; _violeur, meurtrier, menteur,_ _imbécile_. He was missing several fingers and toes, the rest with the nails extracted, as were his teeth. His tongue had been cut out, his eyes gouged, and all three were placed neatly on the floor at his feet. His body was strung up by the arms, hung from the bottom of the chandelier, and the entire room seemed to be spattered with blood, covering every available surface.

The palace was in uproar, no one knowing who would cause such a gruesome scene, subject the man to such a slow and torturous death. Save for the youngest prince.

Elanor watched Philip silently over the rim of her wineglass, sitting on the armchair in his chambers with her legs folded up.

“What is wrong? I told you I was going to kill him.”

“I know you did. I just was not expecting—that.” He motioned weakly in vague direction of the Advisor’s chambers.

“Do you think he deserved any less?”

“After what he did to you? No. No, I cannot say he did.”

“Then what is the issue, here?”

“Father is furious.”

“ _Father_ , is better off without him. Besides, how would he ever know? I’m not a very good suspect given I’ve supposedly been dead for the last twenty years, and you are the only one who knows I’m here..”

Philip blinked at her, and she set the glass down abruptly.

“Who did you tell?”

“El..”

The door of the chamber opened suddenly, and the King strode in, his face a mixture of shock and almost hopefulness.

“Is it true, son?” He asked, not yet having spotted Elanor, her chair against the wall behind him.

“See for yourself, Father..”

Elanor licked her lips and set the cup aside as he wheeled around.

“Elanor..”

She raised her chin slightly, meeting his gaze.

“Father..” His gaze trailed over her repeatedly, as if unable to believe she was actually there. She was still covered in blood, and he sighed quietly.

“So it was you.”

“That man was the cause of every problem I ever had in my life, and he was my murderer. You know what he did to me. He deserved nothing less.”

“I shall not fault you for doing so to him after all he inflicted on you. And I take it the legends were all true.”

“They were, _oui_. I was comatose, untouched by time. I can no longer be harmed by mortal means, I cannot die.”

“So you are resigned to immortality, bound to watch everyone you love grow old and die.”

 

“That is the horrible aspect of it, yes.” She turned her scarlet gaze to her father’s face. “Immortality comes with a price, _papa_. Death _must_ pay for life.”


	3. In Regeneratione

_Scotland, 1993_

 

The halls of Hogwarts castle echoed with memories of centuries past. Three times she had attended the school-- each time posing as a transfer student to avoid suspicion over her age. Magic was fluid and ever-changing, new spells and charms and potions were constantly being created, and she wanted to learn them all.

She'd last walked the corridors of the school in 1798, having previously attended the school in both the late 1360's and the mid 1620's.

She'd travelled the world, studying all forms of magic and history, meeting some of the most influential people in history. She'd lived through wars, and had even, though she was loath to admit it, had met (and befriended), a young Tom Riddle, well on his way to becoming the most powerful wizard in the world.

A clatter in the corridor distracted her as two sixth years barreled past her, knocking her shoulder and spilling her bag across the floor. She sighed, kneeling to clean it up.

In years past she would have hexed the living daylights out of them, but the centuries made everyday petty annoyances all but disappear.

Just a part of life.

Scooping her parchment sheets and quills back into the bag, she paused, realising there was a suspicious lack of red sweets amongst the contents.

She couldn't possibly be out already..

Digging through the bag, she gave a grumbled utterance of frustration.

 _Honestly_.

Sighing in resignation, she took up her bag and turned up the corridor, tiredly speaking candy names at the griffin statue guarding the stairwell until it opened, granting her passage.

The stairwell stopped before a great wooden door, on which she knocked, and it swung open to her.

"Ah, Miss Blackthorne, what brings you here?"

She opened her mouth to speak but cut off abruptly, her gaze fixed in slight frustration on the man Dumbledore was speaking with, who was staring at her rather belligerently for being interrupted.

She sent the old professor a knowing look, and he smiled at her over his half-moon spectacles, rooting around his desk drawers and offering her a small, inconspicuous pasteboard box.

He scribbled a note on a scrap of paper for her to give to her Head of House, which she knew gave her permission to visit the shops of Hogsmeade, and she accepted the items gratefully.

The man visiting tapped his cane against his foot in irritation, and she sent him a scowl, which he returned with indignation.

He looked familiar.

He was rich, that barely took a glance to tell, dressed in elegant black robes. He was tall, broad-shouldered and pale, with cheekbones that could cut glass, but his telling feature was his platinum blonde hair, tied back with a black ribbon.

Malfoy.

She'd certainly known many of them over the centuries.

The Malfoy family had been in existence for as long as she had, perhaps longer. She'd known one whilst she was still mortal, in any case. She was acquainted with one now, Draco, an arrogant little boy in Slytherin house, alongside her. He was only a third year, but they'd become unlikely friends, as he was good company and they shared the same sense of humour.

This man must be his father, as he looked to be in his late thirties, to Draco's thirteen.

The man-- Malfoy-- gave her a haughty once-over and a sneer, but his cool grey eyes betrayed faint curiosity, which she acknowledged with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Turning to thank the Headmaster, she lifted her chin with a pointed glare in Malfoy's general direction, then swept from the room, head held high.

Popping one of the blood sweets into her mouth, she sucked on it absently as she wanders down the corridor to the Great Hall, her hands shoved in her skirt pockets.

No one so far had guessed her secret, as she kept her "affliction" well hidden. On the rare occasions that she did have to feed, it was on small animals in the Forbidden Forest, the rest of the time it was normal food and the blood sweets, and she'd managed to mostly adjust to a daylight schedule. She wasn't really friends with anyone, however, as it was dangerous to become close with others. The secret was likely to come out that way. She had a few acquaintances she would sometimes study or eat with, but she mostly kept to herself, easy as she had no roommates in the dorms, the reason circulated to be as she was a transfer and therefore there was an uneven amount of female students in her year.

"Miss..?"

She glanced up at the voice behind her, and came to face the man from Dumbledore's office.

"Who exactly are you?" He asked with a deep frown.

"You-- look familiar."

She arched an eyebrow. "My name is Elanor Blackthorne."

He seemed puzzled. "I know of a family with that name, but they do not have children."

"I am not from England, instead a transfer student. From France."

His stormy eyes narrowed somewhat, and she could just see the word _Whiteflagger_ trembling on those pale lips.

"Your accent is perfect for a French girl."

"I find it to be advantageous to not sound French in this country, Mr. Malfoy."

"I never told you my name." He said, eyebrow arched in interest.

"Indeed you didn't." She replied with a hint of a smirk. "But it's clear to all that you are a Malfoy. I presume you are Abraxas's son, Draco's father?"

He seemed unsettled as she spoke. "I-- yes.. Abraxas was my father. But you are far too young to have known him, he died nearly twenty years past."

"I think you'll find I know a great deal of people, Mr Malfoy. But you are Draco's father, then."

"Yes."

"He is an interesting child. I believe he will be a great man one day."

"You speak with the sense of wisdom beyond your years, Miss Blackthorne."

She smiled enigmatically, but didn't respond, and he moved to walk beside her as they went down the stairs to the Entrance Hall.

"Who are your parents?" He asked, in a manner she suspected was more casually conversational than anything else, and she sighed.

"Inconsequential."

That hurt to say. It was the hardest thing in the world, to hold her father's hand as he lay on his deathbed, and to have him die before her eyes.

"Perhaps, but their names."

"Philip and Agnes."

Not a lie. The surname was a front, but none of the rest.

"Siblings?"

"Marie and Philip, both older. An older half-brother named Louis. And an illegitimate brother named Pierre."

"Illegitimate?" He asked, with almost a laugh.

"Yes." She said quietly. "He's a bishop."

"You say that like he was placed there to avoid dirtying the royal family with the scandal of a bastard."

She pursed her lips as he smirked.

"What do your other brothers do, then?"

She shrugged delicately. "They don't really _do_ anything. They're rich."

"Ah."

He nodded in a conspiratorial way, and she sighed. They didn't do anything, because they were cold and dead and in the ground, but it wouldn't be prudent to tell him that.

"And your sister?"

"Married with children."

They'd reached the entrance to the Great Hall, and she'd paused, sending him a faint smile. There was no warmth in it, she was increasingly nervous at his inquires into her personal life, but then again, there was nothing but coldness in his own expression. It was a Pureblood mannerism to look into others' families, to question the legitimacy, as easily as discussing the weather, but still it worried her. He simply smiled dryly at her, though, glancing into the Hall beyond her.

"This is where I leave you, then. It was nice meeting you, Miss Blackthorne."

"It was. Good day, Mr. Malfoy."

He'd nodded to her in farewell before turning and sweeping from the castle, and she'd stood and watched him go, an expression of contemplation on her pale features, before she turned away.

 

Over the next week she'd gently prodded information from Draco, who was more than happy to prattle on for hours about his family. Apparently Mr Lucius Malfoy was thirty-six, married to a Narcissa Black, had one child (Draco), and was a governor of Hogwarts, in addition to working in the Department of International Magical Cooperation at the Ministry of Magic. He'd been in Slytherin house, and had played on the Quidditch team as a Chaser. He was fantastically rich, a great potions master, and presided over the vast Malfoy estate in Wiltshire.

Most importantly, though, he'd been a supporter of Tom Riddle in the first wizarding war-- as a Death Eater.

Interesting man, Lucius Malfoy.

 

Their second meeting had occurred several months later, following Elanor's re-completion of her sixth year at Hogwarts, over the summer holiday. She'd taken an internship at the Ministry of Magic, in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Beings Devision, which she found laughable as that was precisely what she was, according to the Ministry-- vampires were "Beings", capable of understanding human speech. Funny how they'd call her that, as she was once as human as any of the rest of them. She was unregistered, a grave crime, but who would know? Besides, she'd been born five hundred years before that law had even been a glimmer of an idea.

Shaking her head at the attitudes of some of the employees of the bureau, she traipsed towards the lift. Hopefully she could install some sense into their brains about "her kind", that they weren't all bad.

The lift doors opened and she glanced up from her watch, and was surprised to see a familiar face.

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy." She greeted him politely as she stepped in beside him, and he appraised her with arched eyebrows, but nonetheless offered greetings in return.

They'd chatted casually on the way to the Atrium, both taking fireplaces to Apparate onto the public street. The day had been cold and raining when she'd gone in to work, but had since cleared a bit and the sun was out, which she realised grumpily.

She pulled her cardigan sleeves over her hands and shaded her face as best she could, feeling the sunlight burning into her skin.

"Are you quite alright, Miss Blackthorne?" Lucius Malfoy had asked, concerned, but she waved him off.

"Fine. Been shut up inside all day-- it's really quite bright out here, isn't it?"

He'd glanced at the sky and made a noise of agreement, but she'd seen the confusion on his face. The sun was out but it was a feeble light, still dogged by ominous-looking clouds-- by no means bright sunlight. It _was_ London, after all.

She hadn't seen him again after that day for some months, not until classes at Hogwarts had resumed in September, and he'd come to do a week-long inspection of the school with the other governors.

 

Their third encounter, she was in no way ashamed to admit, had found her in his embrace in an unused corridor of the castle, her legs around his waist and nails on his back as he'd fucked her against the wall, her cries of pleasure lost in the still, stale air of the castle.

 

She'd laid awake a long while that night, thinking. She'd slept with a married man. A Pureblood man, though. Affairs as common to him as reading the paper. Still, it felt strange. She hadn't been with a man for a good thirty years or so. Not since another Malfoy. And God, Paris-- Lestat. No, she mustn't think of Lestat. Not now.

Turning onto her side and burrowing in the covers, she scowled to herself. What was she thinking? Getting close to someone who would despise her should he learn her secret-- a man who hated her kind so much she would not be surprised if he took it upon himself to see her put away in Azkaban.

Foolish, foolish mistake.

Never again.

 

Their fourth meeting was just as stiff as the first two, and he addressed her with a degree of polite, detached formality, as if the last time they'd seen each other, they'd discussed the weather or politics of such. Nothing to betray that she'd been crying out his name as he'd demanded she come for him. The bruises on her skin from his handling were still faint marks on her, proof she hadn't imagined it.

He had looked at her with a faint smirk, no doubt sensing her confusion, but he'd instead offered her a drink, though they both knew what it really meant, and sure enough, she'd found herself in his bed with him, hidden away in a corridor of guest suites in the castle.

This was going to far. Surely he'd notice something, any of the signs about her that she was unable to hide.

She used spells to cover the real shade of her eyes and the sharpened fangs, but if one observed closely, they might notice the ripple of magic that covered her true form. Had he felt it, when he'd kissed her?

Her skin was cold, perpetually cold, even in the heat of passion she gave off no warmth, which he _had_ to have noticed. There was absolutely no way he hadn't. He'd kept his mouth shut, however, and as long as he continued to, they would have no quarrel. 


	4. In Accusationem

"What are you?"

  
She looked up from her schoolwork and stared blankly at him for a moment, as he'd plonked down across from her at the Ravenclaw table where she'd been studying.

"Hello to you too, Mr Malfoy."

"What are you?" He repeated with a scowl, and she sent him an unamused look.

"What am I? I'm a teenager, a female, a Pureblood, a student.. Take your pick. I don't know which you're referring to."

"A Pureblood." He repeated, the disbelief obvious in his voice.

" _Yes_ , Mr Malfoy, a Pureblood. I would think, being one yourself, that you would understand the meaning of the word."

His scowl deepened as she spoke.

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to." She replied, amused, as she went back to writing her essay. "I don't particularly care what you think of me."

"You're a half."

"My parents were a witch and a wizard, Mr Malfoy.."

Her quill continued to scratch away at her work, which seemed to annoy him.

"Half _breed_ , Miss Blackthorne."

The scratching abruptly stopped, and he seemed satisfied that he'd caught her attention as she set her quill on the table, her gaze meeting his steadily.

"And what makes you think that?"

"Your temperature, for one. I can understand being a bit cold all the time as it _is_ the middle of winter and you live in a stone castle, but you're icy cold. Completely. Everywhere."

She arched an eyebrow, sitting back and waiting passively for him to continue.

"You don't eat much, but you've always got sweets. Sweets that look suspiciously like a certain special brand carried by Honeydukes."

"You've never been with me at mealtimes, Mr Malfoy. You have no way of knowing how much I eat."

"You drink wine like it's your lifeblood.."

"So?" That one caught her off guard. "I'm a Pureblood, and a French one to boot. I started drinking wine mixed with water when I was five years old."

"And you're using a charm to alter your appearance." He continued smugly, and she stared coolly at him.

"Am I."

"I've felt it. Don't deny it."

"I don't deny it. But I'm hardly the first girl to use charms to make herself prettier, Mr Malfoy. If that was a crime, you'd have to go after every girl in the school."

"The charm in itself might not be a crime, but what it's hiding certainly is."

"Which is..?"

  
"You're a vampire."

  
She was quiet for a long moment, gazing at him.

"No, I am not." She finally answered, and he glowered at her.

"That was a rather telling silence. Do not lie to me, Miss Blackthorne. Or I might ask what your true name is, as that clearly is a front."

"And if I refuse to tell you?"

"Then I shall have no qualms with exposing you. You are friends with my son, are you not? I'm not sure I approve of Draco fraternizing with a vampire."

She stared at him passively as he taunted her.

"Isn't it a crime to be an unregistered vampire? That's a life sentence in Azkaban. And life for you is a very long time indeed."

"Make all the threats you like, Mr Malfoy. You are insisting on a lie, and it does not affect me."

He stared at her with a dry little smirk for a long moment, then glanced at his hands as he removed his ring, twisting it between his fingers.

His gaze met hers again, and before she could process what he was going to do, he reached out and pressed it to her arm.

Instantly there was a fluttered explosion of papers and books mixed with a loud shriek of pain, as she jerked away hard enough to send her falling backwards off the bench, knocking all her schoolwork in the process.

She sat up quickly as he rose from the table, replacing his ring smugly.

"That's what I thought. Good day, Miss Blackthorne.."

She gaped after him as he strode from the Hall, wincing at the red mark burned into her arm, and struggled to her feet. He couldn't-- if he left, he'd share her secret with the world.

She wouldn't allow that to happen.

Ignoring the stares of the students around her, she turned and sprinted from the Hall.

  
He was halfway down the path to the gates when she ran through the huge castle doors. Once through the gates he'd be outside the Anti-Apparation charms over the property, and he'd get away.

Sprinting down the path after him, as he opened the gates, he turned back to look at her with the most infuriating smirk, and she leapt forwards, managing to grasp his arm just as he Apparated away.

 

Falling to the ground as they reappeared, she gasped for breath, clutching her side. Apparation really was the worst way to travel.

"Oh _good_ , you've really done it now, witch."

Lucius Malfoy's furious voice spoke behind her, and then his hand was on her arm, dragging her to her feet.

"What do you expect me to do with you now?"

"I expect you to _listen_ to me." She snapped, and he scoffed.

"Why? I hold your future, the rest of your life, in my power. I suggest you don't act like a brat if you'd like your affliction to remain a secret."

She stared at him grimly, lips pursed.

"Mr. Malfoy, you seem to be under the impression that I am a sniveling schoolgirl that will cower before you and do your bidding."

"No, I don't believe that about you. I believe you are dangerous, that you are a liar, and that you are a murderer."

"A murderer." She laughed without humour. "Interesting words from a Death Eater."

"I was under magical coercion."

"Then you are weak and a coward."

"How _dare_ \--!"

"Yes, Mr Malfoy, if you choose to regard it as such, I am a murderer. I've killed before. But I've killed to survive. Not to serve a master, not for the pleasure of it. I hated killing people. Therefore I choose not to, as that is my choice. You kill because you enjoy it, because your master orders it. _You_ are the monster, Lucius Malfoy. Not me."

"I would advise you to hold your tongue, girl."

"Or what? You'll expose me? Try it. I guarantee you that you will never get the chance."

"What, you'd kill me? You just finished preaching about how moral you are, not killing people any longer."

"No, Mr. Malfoy. I said I kill to survive. If it means choosing between continuing my normal life, or spending eternity in Azkaban, I _will_ kill you, if that's what it takes. I will not allow you to take my life from me."

"But you seem more than willing to take _my_ life from _me_." He replied dryly. "What an interesting creature you are, my dear. But I really must insist you return to your school now, as I have important business to attend to."

He turned and opened the gate, giving her a mocking bow as if to escort her out, but she didn't move, staring at him in faint amusement.

"If only, Mr. Malfoy. If only."

He seemed confused, and she smirked.

"I won't allow you to get away with exposing me, Lucius Malfoy. If you value your life, I would suggest you don't test me."

"You're threatening me?"

"As you have been doing to me all day, now? Yes, I suppose I am."

He gave an irritated sigh. "Honestly, girl. I don't have time for this. I'm a very busy man."

"Death is indiscriminate, Mr. Malfoy. It will come to the lowest and the highest of us all."

He regarded her impatiently. "Death is for other people, my dear."

"How very typical. Mortals are so arrogant that way. It's laughable, really. Your life is a blink in the life of an immortal. You think you are all so powerful, when you live for second, and then you're dead and gone and forgotten."

"I will not be forgotten. Not now."

 

"You will, in time. And you will still be dead."

 


	5. In Memoriam

He watched her for a long moment, her features still and peaceful, her chest rising and falling evenly with sleep. Working himself carefully from the bed, he moved slowly so not to move her about and wake her, moving soundlessly across the carpet to the door.  
  
Beginning to tug the door shut, he thought twice about that, leaving it slightly open.  
  
Did vampires sleep?  
  
It was the middle of the afternoon. They were nocturnal, but she had to have changed her natural schedule to sleep at night, as she went to school and work.  
  
Ah, shit. She was pretending.  
  
He glanced back into the room, his heart dropping to find his bed empty.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
"Going somewhere?"  
  
He jumped, finding her leaning against the wall across from him, her arms folded and a peeved tone to her voice.  
  
"Downstairs for a drink?" He tried, but it was plain in his voice that it was a lie.  
  
She sneered at him, and it made him nervous. He was the one that did the sneering around here. He was the powerful one. One look from her was making him feel like a schoolboy again, and he didn't like it one bit.  
  
"Get out of my way, Miss Blackthorne." He snapped, but she just looked at him curiously, then held her hand up towards him, palm out, and he suddenly struggled unable to move, bound by invisible ties.  
  
"What-- what is this?" He demanded, and she smiled lazily.  
  
"The magic of my kind, similar to the power of a house elf. Far stronger than an average wizard."  
  
He scowled at the connotation of being considered an 'average wizard'. Lucius Malfoy had never been average in his life, always exceptional.  
  
"Let me go, woman." He said lowly, the threat plain in his voice, and she laughed, an unnerving sound.  
  
"Or you'll what? You're rather stuck at the moment, Mr Malfoy."  
  
In an instant she was before him, her body close enough to be pressed against him, her hands on his chest as she stood on her toes. He flinched as her lips brushed his throat.  
  
She wouldn't..  
  
"Miss Blackthorne.." He cut off, his voice hoarse, and she laughed. Insufferable girl.  
  
He scowled but the expression was immediately replaced with alarm as her teeth scraped his skin.  
  
"Stop this!" He snapped, but she breathed out a laugh, her breath tickling his skin.  
  
"But you have such beautiful skin, Mr Malfoy. I'd like to mark it."  
  
"I--you--what?!" He spluttered, prompting her to laugh again.  
  
"I've been able to smell your blood. We can, you know. But you.. Ever since the moment we met in Dumbledore's office.."  
  
He looked down at her with an expression of mixed fear and confusion, but there was also a sparkle of curiosity. He wanted to know what she was going to say.  
  
"I don't believe I have ever lusted after a mortal's blood with such intensity before."  
  
He blinked rapidly.  
  
"Can you feed without killing the person?"  
  
She smiled dryly. "Yes, of course. If you'd taken a moment when you were accusing me of being a murderer, you would have seen that. We feed and then erase the memories of the victim, and they continue with their life. It's been long years since I've killed out of necessity."  
  
"Will you be placated if I allow you to do so?"  
  
"We shall see.."  
  
Muttering curses himself under his breath, he stormed back into the bedroom, settling himself down onto the edge of the bed.  
  
"Do it, then, if you must."  
  
She gazed at him curiously from the doorway, allowing the spells covering her face to fade as she cautiously approached him.  
  
"I have no patience for you should you attempt to lure me into false security. Try anything against me and you will die."  
  
"I'm not going to try anything, Miss Blackthorne." He snapped, looking rather put out at the accusation.  
  
"Put aside your wand."  
  
He rolled his eyes, but rose, placing it out of reach.  
  
"Happy?" He drawled, dropping back down to the bed with a scowl.  
  
She slipped onto the bed, sitting behind him and pulling his collar away from his throat.  
  
He sighed again, shrugging out of his shirt, and flinching as her hands ran up his back, brushing his hair away from his shoulder.  
  
"Relax, Mr. Malfoy.."  
  
"Relax? How exactly do you expect me to relax, woman?"  
  
"It'll hurt more if you don't."  
  
"It's already going to hurt. Just do it and get it over with."  
  
She scowled but acquiesced, feeling a prickle of smug satisfaction as he drew a sharp inhalation of breath at the sting of the bite.  
  
"Fucking hell--!"  
  
Raising a hand, she clamped it over his mouth and forced his head back and to the side, effective in both allowing her better access and finally making him shut up.  
  
He flailed at the act but found himself again magically bound, and gave a snarl of irritation, muffled by her hand, then gave up, sitting quietly until she was through.  
  
She lowered her hand from his mouth, releasing him from his magical binds, and healed the punctures on his throat, then sat back and folded her arms as he rose from the bed, hand pressed to his neck with a grimace.  
  
"Don't _ever_ do that again." He hissed lowly, his eyes blazing, and she smirked, a hidden flick of her wand rendering his gaze blank, his memory of the incident gone.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
He blinked at her in confusion for a moment, then shrugged and sat down in the chair across the room, his face creased with exhaustion.  
  
  
Leaving him to sleep, she slipped from the room, his wand in her hand. As an afterthought, she cast a charm over the door. He wasn't going anywhere without his wand, he wouldn't, but she wasn't taking any chances.  
  
Wandering the halls, she appreciated the opulence of the manor. She'd been in this house before, she vaguely recalled. Centuries ago. Nicholas Malfoy had been a powerful wizard in the 1300's, and she had visited with some acquaintances.  
  
How the centuries had changed the house, yet, at the same time, it hadn't changed much at all.  
  
She found herself suddenly in a broad hallway lined with portraits, the Malfoy ancestors, it would seem. The figures drew themselves up haughtily as she passed them. The first men were unfamiliar to her, but she paused by the portrait of Nicholas himself, smiling faintly as the man gazed at her, his brow creased with recognition.  
  
"You are familiar to me, but from my time.. An impossibility."  
  
"Not quite impossible. I met you, when you were Lord of this Manor. 1349, I think it must have been."  
  
"Ah, yes.. You were with Lord Haxley, weren't you. Capet's daughter, with the.. affliction."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"How do you again find yourself in my home, centuries later?"  
  
"A quarrel with your descendent."  
  
"A proud man." He sniffed, and she smiled dryly.  
  
"As were you all."  
  
She spoke with him for a moment longer, then continued to make her way down the hall.  
  
She came across a portrait of Lucius Malfoy the First, whom she'd met during a brief trip to England in the late 1500's, as she'd spent the better part of that century in Rome; and then Septimus Malfoy, an advisor to the Minister of Magic in the late 1700's, but she didn't speak much with them, as they'd been nothing more than one-time acquaintances.  
  
The last portrait, however, was a face much more familiar to her.  
  
"Her majesty Elanor Margaret Capet, the lost Princess of France, returns to Wiltshire at long last.."  
  
His voice drawled out as she stepped before the portrait, and she smirked, her first genuine happiness in a long time.  
  
"Hello, Abraxas."  
  
"It's been many years, my dear."  
  
"Yes, I suppose the years have gone by.." She replied vaguely. "I hardly notice anymore. But it has been a long time since I last saw your face."  
  
"And what brings you here now, to stand in my home once more?"  
  
"A quarrel with your son, of all things. He hasn't taken kindly to the discovery of my dirty little secret."  
  
"No, I can't imagine he would be. Lucius was always proud and haughty. Unaccepting."  
  
"I seem to recall you having a similar initial reaction, Abraxas.."  
  
He chuckled. "I suppose you're right, my dear."  
  
"Perhaps you can knock some sense into him. I'd hate to kill him, especially someone so esteemed as a Malfoy."  
  
"Ha! You came close several times, I recall.."  
  
"And you would have deserved it." She muttered with a pout. "You were ever so mean to me."  
  
"As you say, you deserved it. We were good for each other."  
  
"We were." She folded her arms. "Until you broke my heart, and made me watch you grow old and die.."  
  
"My dear, what use is living forever if you can't enjoy it? I was ill."  
  
"I would have healed you."  
  
"Must we have this tired argument again, Elanor? It's been twenty years and you still haven't overcome? Let it go, let me go. You'll be happier for it."  
  
She stepped closer, her eyes taking in the sight of him. It was an accurate likeness, immortalizing his handsome features in oils, and she sighed, her gaze slipping to the ground.  
  
"I cannot be happy, Abraxas. Never again. All hope of that was stripped from me when I was seventeen years old, still a princess of France."  
  
"You will find it, if you know where to look for it, my dear."  
  
She smiled sadly. "I rather doubt tha--"  
  
_"There_ you are, you little bitch!"  
  
Ah, the beast had awoken from his slumber.  
  
"Lucius, really. Is that any way to address a lady?" Abraxas snapped at him.  
  
"Even a lady who steals your wand and magically locks you in a room?"  
  
"Simple precautions against a man who's repeatedly threatened me.." She defended herself to Abraxas, who scowled at his son.  
  
"Be reasonable."  
  
"I don't have patience for reasonable. Not with her, not anymore."  
  
"When did you ever?" She demanded, at the same time Abraxas chuckled and said "I found her to be the same way."  
  
She looked at him with a scowl. _"You_ are not helping."  
  
"I wasn't trying to." He retorted, amused.  
  
"You always were insufferable.." She muttered, and he smirked.  
  
"Malfoys always are."  
  
Lucius was looking between the two as they continued to bicker.  
  
"Sorry, do you two know each other? Otherwise I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of this, old man."  
  
"Oh yes, we go way back." She and Abraxas exchanged sly, conspiratorial looks, and Lucius gazed at her with burning anger in his eyes.  
  
She mildly offered him his wand, which he snatched from her, stuffing it in his trouser pocket with a huff.  
  
"Do treat her nicely, son. She's a wonderful girl."  
  
"Funny, I didn't get that impression." Lucius hissed, his long fingers curling around her wrist and dragging her from the hall.  
  
  
She found herself being physically thrown into his study, and voiced complaint as he slammed the door behind him, towering over her.  
  
"So you've taken up with my father, of all people? Why the hell would you not tell me that?"  
  
"Well, for one, you didn't ask. And two, it's not any of your business."  
  
"He's my bloody father, Elanor!"  
  
"Yes, I am aware that he is your father. For Merlin's sake, do shut up."  
  
"How dare you--"  
  
"It was _years_ ago, Mr. Malfoy! I must have last seen him in 1946, he was still a very young man."  
  
"You were speaking of a much more recent time." His voice was hard, his hands clenched in fists at his sides.  
  
She looked away.  
  
"Yes.. I-- I visited him, when he was so sick. When he was dying. I wanted to heal him, but he wouldn't let me. He wanted to die."  
  
All the colour seemed to have drained from his face. "You--"  
  
He broke off, and she bit the inside of her cheek, her eyes downcast.  
  
"I was forced to watch, as the Dragon Pox stole the rest of the man I'd loved from me, the part of him not ravaged by his age. I held his hand as he died, a shell of what he once was."  
  
She stopped as her lip trembled at the tears that threatened to fall, and turned away from him sharply.  
  
"What do you want me to say, Mr. Malfoy?" She demanded thickly, and he gave a grumble of irritation.  
  
"For one, you could try calling me Lucius. Stop with the 'Mr. Malfoy'."  
  
That was unexpected, but she nodded faintly.  
  
"Perhaps, we could try to come to an agreement, as well." She said tentatively.  
  
"An agreement?"  
  
She glanced back at him, not missing the way his gaze focused on the tear tracks on her face.  
  
"What can I do? If you expose me, you condemn me to eternity imprisoned. I will die in the conditions of that place. If that is your intention, save me the suffering and yourself the trouble, and I ask that you simply kill me now."  
  
He stared at her, his haughty demeanor shattered at her words.  
  
"How does one even kill a vampire? Silver bullets?" He muttered.  
  
"That's for werewolves. Vampires can only be killed by starvation, as prison would do, or  by fire."  
  
"Fire." He repeated weakly, and she looked up at him.  
  
"Fire, yes. Tied to a stake and burnt alive.. Scatter the ashes to the wind, and only then will they truly be dead."  
  
He looked momentarily horrified.  
  
"I'm not doing that to you."  
  
"I beg you to do so in alternative to turning me in."  
  
"I cannot."  
  
"You'd prefer to let me die the slow death of starvation? At least the fire, although painful, is over quickly."  
  
His lips were pursed tightly as he stared silently at her for a very long moment.

  
"No. I cannot in good conscience allow that to happen to you, at my doing."


	6. In Reminiscentiam

After his confession, they seemed to tolerate each other a little more. She had only missed a few days of classes before the students left for the Christmas holidays, and she ended up staying at Malfoy Manor. He didn't seem to care, anyways, and remained his normal, arrogant self.  
  
  
"Is there a reason you are insisting on treating me like a child?" She snapped, finally fed up with his petty condescension towards her.  
  
"A child? Honestly. You're likely much older than me."  
  
"I am." She replied vaguely, and he glanced over her curiously.  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
She sat in quiet contemplation for a long moment, gazing at the rain outside.  
  
"H--"  
  
"I heard you. It takes a moment to add up."  
  
His eyebrows arched, and he gazed at her quietly until she spoke again.  
  
"Seven hundred ninety three."  
  
"You were born in.. the late 1100's?"  
  
"The year 1200 exactly."  
  
He stared at her in faint surprise mingled with curiosity, then turned to look out the window as he mulled over that tidbit of information.  
  
"I lied to you before."  
  
"You lied about a great many things. To which do you refer?"  
  
She took a moment to scowl at him before replying.  
  
"My surname is not Blackthorne."  
  
His eyebrow arched but he didn't look at her, waiting for her to elaborate.  
  
"My name is Elanor Capet."  
  
"Capet." He repeated dryly. "The Capets were royalty."  
  
"So they were.."  
  
His gaze was suddenly on hers.  
  
"You're not serious."  
  
"I'm perfectly serious. My parents were Philip and Agnes.. Capet. The King and Queen of France."  
  
"You're a princess."  
  
"Was." She corrected him dryly. "The Capet family is dead and the ruling class belongs to another house, now."  
  
"Still."  
  
"Yes. Princess. I was betrothed to the Prince of England. I was to be Queen."  
  
"But then.." He trailed off and motioned vaguely to her face, and she scowled.  
  
"Vampires have not been highly viewed throughout history. Even now. Yes, the Queen of England could not be a vampire. Besides, I was supposedly killed by the terrified French populace when they discovered. I was buried for twenty years. That put a bit of a damper on my marriage prospects.."  
  
He gave a snort of startled laugher.  
  
"Yes, I suppose it would. The undead bride.. How would that look?"  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"How _did_ it look? I'm curious. Would your body not rot away after twenty years?"  
  
"Ah yes, that's it. You've guessed my secret. I use glamour charms to appear normal, but beneath it I'm nothing but a rotted corpse."  
  
"Is sarcasm your reply to absolutely everything? I'm genuinely curious, and here you are underhandedly mocking me."  
  
"It's either that, or I slap you for the idiocy of that question. Which would you prefer?"  
  
He settled into grumpy silence, ignoring her.   
  
  
  
The sun finally peeked through the gloomy, snow-heavy clouds, and he retreated outside to enjoy the bits of sunlight.  
  
Elanor came out the door onto the terrace a while later, rather reluctantly, he thought, and he stared at her for a moment. She was dressed like a 1930's film star, in a long, belted leather coat, the hem of a navy skirt peeking out beneath it, high-heeled laced boots, gloves, big round sunglasses, and an utterly ridiculous floppy sunhat.  
  
"What the hell are you wearing?" He asked, and she shrugged.  
  
"Saks Fifth Avenue and Dior, I think." She replied cheerfully. "Bloody bright day out. Ghastly weather."  
  
"Only to you, it seems. I think it's rather nice."  
  
"Because you're British, I suppose. And I burn in the sunlight."  
  
"Oi. Watch it, love. And yes, I know. I assumed that's why you were wearing that ridiculous hat."  
  
"Oh, you don't like it?" She mocked offense, touching the brim of the hat. "I don't care."  
  
"I didn't think you would. You care about so little."  
  
"I've had more than enough time to learn to stop caring about petty insults, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
She said so cheerfully, but there was a scowl on her dark lips, even if he couldn't see her eyes behind the glasses.  
  
She'd been carrying a glass and she sipped idly at the dark liquid, and he watched with a faintly disgusted look.  
  
"Oh, for fuck's sake. It's wine, not blood, you dolt." She snapped. "Don't look at me like that."  
  
"Careful." He muttered, and she actually stuck her tongue out at him.  
  
"Really, Miss Blackthorne. You're how many centuries old, and you retort like a child."  
  
"Capet." She corrected him absently. "And would you prefer I act like the grumpy old lady I am?" She questioned, sitting back and crossing her legs at the ankles. "Half my time at Hogwarts is spent having to resist yelling at first years to get off my lawn."  
  
"You don't have a lawn." He retorted.  
  
"Doesn't mean I don't think that about them. Been so long since I was actually a child that they do nothing but annoy me now."  
  
"How many first years have you hexed?"  
  
"None, sadly." She said dryly. "That probably would display me in a bad light to the professors who are already doing me a great favour in allowing me to attend."  
  
"They all know?"  
  
"No, not always. Dumbledore does, though."  
  
"I know he does."  
  
"It wasn't a prudent thing to disclose in, for example, the 1600's. I've been staked once, and would prefer to not have it happen again."  
  
His eyebrows arched in question and she diverted her attention to stare at the contents of her glass. He was quiet for a moment, then shrugged elegantly, rising from his chair.  
  
"You're right. It is too bright out here."  
  
She looked relieved as he glanced down at her, then turned to go back inside, and she followed quickly.  
  
  
  
Once again in the dim light of the Manor, she removed her sunglasses, then peeled off her gloves.  
  
His gaze swept over her face in alarm, finding her eyes shadowed with deep purple and yellow bruises beneath them, a fine sheen of sweat covering her pale face.  
  
"What's wrong with you?" He asked, startled, and she removed her hat, glancing up at him.  
  
"I don't do well outdoors. Sunlight is.. Not good for me."  
  
He watched her unbelt her coat and remove it, discovering she was wearing a long-sleeved, high collared blouse with her long skirt.  
  
"Are you sure that's what's wrong? That doesn't look like just sun."  
  
She looked very tired. He'd known she'd slept that night, though, as he hadn't.  
  
"Haven't fed." She muttered, and his fingers grasped her chin, turning her gaze up to his.  
  
"How long?"  
  
She shrugged elegantly. "How long has it been since?"  
  
His lips parted slightly in surprise.  
  
"Two weeks?"  
  
She shrugged again in faint agreement, draping her coat over her arm and stuffing the gloves in the pocket, then turning for the staircase.  
  
"How often do you need to?"  
  
His voice stopped her halfway up the stairs, and she glanced back at him.  
  
"How often do _you_ need to eat?" She asked softly, turning and disappearing down the hall upstairs.  
  
  
He sprinted after her, finding she'd disappeared, and searched with a slight grumble of frustration. He found her in the guest room closet, hanging her coat up.  
  
She didn't look at him as he stopped in the doorway, rooting through a stack of jumpers on the shelf and pulling one on.  
  
"Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Because I know you hate it when I bring it up." She muttered, avoiding his gaze as she buttoned up the front of the cardigan.  
  
"Elanor, I don't know how to take care of you. Therefore you have to tell me what you need."  
  
"I don't need you to take care of me, Mr. Malfoy." She snapped. "I've been on my own for how many years? I can take care of myself."  
  
"Look at yourself in the mirror, then. See how good a job you're doing."  
  
Quick as a snake striking, she slapped him across the face, and he reeled from the blow. It hadn't hurt as much as it had taken him off guard, a rather girly kind of hit, and she pushed past him into the room as he stared dumbly after her.  
  
"What's the matter with you?" He snapped, but she didn't respond, stomping from the room and slamming the door behind her with a clatter.  
  
  
  
He stormed about all afternoon, some distraction coming in the form of Rodolphus Lestrange, who popped in to enlist his help in a mission.  
  
"Who's the girl?" Rodolphus asked as they strode down the cobblestone street of Knockturn Alley, and he sent the dark-haired man a sharp look.  
  
"What?"  
  
"The girl, at your place."  
  
"I don't know what you mean." He sniffed, and Rodolphus gave him an incredulous look.  
  
"When I was waiting for you to finish primping, Luci, there was a girl, in the corridor. Dark hair, pale as a ghost."  
  
"You mean Katherine. She's one of the ghosts that resides in the Manor. And I do not _primp,_ 'Dolphus." He lied smoothly, and Rodolphus rolled his eyes.  
  
"Yes, you bloody well do. And sure she is."  
  
Lucius scowled as his friend side-eyed him.  
  
"Lucius, it's fine, you know."  
  
"What's fine?"  
  
"Having a woman around."  
  
"Have you forgotten that I'm married?" He asked irritably.  
  
"No, but you're separated. It's common knowledge that Narcissa hasn't been seen with you in over six months."  
  
"I'm bloody well aware of what Narcissa does, much as I wish I wasn't."  
  
"So, it's fine if you've got someone, in her place. I would." He added, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I'm not judging you, Luci. I just wanted to know who she is."  
  
“Come off it.” He complained. “You have more important things to be worrying about, at the moment. This target, for example.”   
  
He flicked the hood of his black robe low over his eyes.   
  
“We have work to do.”  
  
  
  
  
  
"He needs healing work."  
  
Elanor looked them over as they came into the hall, Lucius leaning heavily on Rodolphus’s shoulder, his hand clutching his side through his robes. She sniffed in irritation.   
  
"I don't know, Mr. Malfoy. You seem to think my magic is subpar, since I apparently have "tainted blood". You're a Pureblood, Mr. Malfoy. Do it yourself."  
  
Lucius's face creased with anger.  
  
"You listen here, you little--"  
  
"Lucius, calm down. I'll do it."  
  
"No." He twisted away from Rodolphus's grip on his shoulder. "My ribs still haven't fully mended from the _last_ time you tried to use healing spells on me, and that was in sixth year. I'll do it myself."  
  
Elanor nodded to Rodolphus as Lucius began to limp up the stairs, and turned to follow after him.  
  
  
  
"I don't object to your magic as being tainted." He muttered as she followed him into his room, sending her a glare.   
  
"Oh yes you do." She replied with a laugh. "I heard you talking to your father's portrait about me."  
  
"That.." He looked away. "I was angry."  
  
He shrugged off his waistcoat with a grimace of pain, and she stared at the blood that soaked through his shirt.  
  
"It's not important." He muttered at her expression, but the weakness in his voice betrayed him, and she rose, taking his hand.  
  
"Let me heal you."  
  
He allowed her to lead him over towards the bed, but when her fingers began to unbutton his shirt, he stopped her.  
  
"What is the cost for me?"  
  
"For?" She asked, surprised, and he stared hard at her.  
  
"How do you intend to heal me?"  
  
"With my magic.."  
  
"And you can do so with absolutely no consequences whatever?"  
  
"Yes? It's the same as using a healing spell."  
  
He stared down at her for a moment as she appraised the deep gash on his side once she'd gotten his shirt off him.  
  
"Why wouldn't my father let you save him, then?"  
  
She froze, her hand hovering over his wound, and she looked up at him warily.  
  
"Your father was very sick, Mr. Malfoy. Beyond the skill of even the best Healers. And beyond my magic. That was not how I intended to heal him."  
  
Her words sank in suddenly, and his eyes widened slightly, but just then she pressed her hand to the wound and he yelped in pain, hissing through his teeth as her fingertips dragged down the length of the gash. Already it began to knit closed, and she stepped back, sucking the blood from her fingertips with an apologetic shrug.  
  
"Sorry. Can't help it."  
  
"I didn't say anything." He complained, watching as the wound was reduced to a thin scar.  
  
She smiled faintly and walked from the room, and he turned to follow after her, her words resounding in his head.

  
  
He found her rinsing her hands in the bathroom, her gaze flickering to his through the reflection of the mirror.  
  
"You intended to heal him by turning him." It was a statement rather than a question, and she turned to dry her hands, not replying.  
  
"Miss Blackthorne, answer me. Or I will go to my father."  
  
"I cannot turn a mortal. It is a grave crime that carries a life sentence in Azkaban." She said.  
  
"That does not mean you wouldn't, if you were desperate enough."  
  
"You're right." She muttered, turning and brushing past him, but he caught her about the waist.  
  
"Tell me what happened, with my father."  
  
She blinked up at him.  
  
"What of it?"  
  
"You had some form of relationship with him."  
  
She looked away with a scowl. "I was in love with him."  
  
He waited for her to continue, arm still firmly about her waist to keep her there.  
  
"He knew what I was, knew who I was, and it didn't matter to him. He was a very young man at the time."  
  
"How young?"  
  
"Seventeen, at first. I'd met him through a school event, I was at Beauxbatons at the time. He was captivated and we were inseparable from then on. He married eventually, to a woman he barely knew, and we carried on in secret for years. When his wife discovered she was pregnant, it seemed to jolt him back to reality. I saw him a few more times, but he always seemed to feel so guilty that it wasn't worth it to try anymore. So I disappeared, and he went back to his family. To his wife, and to his newborn son-- to you."  
  
"And you didn't see him again until he was dying?"  
  
She smirked faintly.  
  
"I saw him once more before then. I was at Hogwarts, had a meeting with Dumbledore. I think you must have been about fifteen or sixteen at the time. He was also there for a meeting with the Headmaster, and we bumped into each other in the corridor. That was the last time I was with him, and the last time I saw him before St. Mungo's."  
  
He gazed at her, mind suddenly burning with faint recognition, of two memories.  
  
"I have seen you before, years ago. The first at Hogwarts, that must have been the time you just spoke of. I saw a girl in the hall- a brunette in an Ilvermorny uniform." His eyes were wide at the memory. "You'd smirked at me as you went past, looking as though you'd just had a thorough shagging.. Rodolphus was harassing you."  
  
"Thank your father for that. Yes, I remember that. I remember thinking that you must have been the son he was so fond of. With your hair, who else could you be but a Malfoy?"  
  
"Fond?" He laughed harshly. "I do not believe 'fond' was ever an emotion my father ever had for me."  
  
"You'd be surprised." She said quietly. "He spoke of you often."  
  
He shook his head and she reminded him he'd spoken of seeing her twice.  
  
"The second time was at St. Mungo's. I'd bumped into a girl in the corridor right outside his room. Never realized you were the same girl from that time at Hogwarts. You were crying and I asked if you were alright."  
  
She nodded slowly. "I remember that time as well. That was when he told me he wouldn't allow me to save him."  
  
"You were at his funeral the next week, but I didn't get the chance to speak to you to ask your name. No one else I spoke to seemed to know who you were."  
  
"No one ever does, anymore."  
  
She'd gazed up at him with such pain in her eyes, and he'd kissed her, giving up on caring that she'd been with his father, what she was, and what she'd seen. Her hand came up and threaded in his hair, and she pressed her little body against him, and then he was too far gone to care about anything other than her and her touch.

 


	7. In Inventionem

"On 15 August 1193, Philip II married Ingeborg, renamed Isambour, daughter of King Valdemar I of Denmark."  


Elanor nearly spit her mouthful of wine out as Lucius spoke suddenly behind her, and turned to glare at him. He held a large, leather-bound book in his hands, his gaze flickering to hers before he continued to read.  
  
"Philip refused to allow her to be crowned Queen. Isambour protested, and he confined her to a convent. He asked Pope Celestine III for an annulment on grounds of non-consummation--"  
  
"Mr. Malfoy!"  
  
He stopped, lowering the book to look at her.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why are you reading me this? I know all of this. I knew her personally."  
  
"Philip married Agnes of Merania in 1196, who bore him three children; Marie, Philip, and Elanor. Pope Innocent III declared Philip's marriage to Agnes null and void, as he was still married to Isambour. When Philip refused, Innocent placed France under an interdict. Under pressure from the Pope and Isambour's brother, Philip finally took Isambour back as his wife in 1213."  
  
Elanor had fixed him with a nasty glare as he read, a sneer curling her lip.  
  
"So you're not a princess? You're a bastard?"  
  
"We were legitimized by the Pope in 1201 per my father's request. My mother died, heartbroken, when I was a baby, when my father was forced to take back that witch as his wife."  
  
"Weren't you all witches?" He asked dryly, and she squinted at him.  
  
"In the sense that we were magical? Agnes was a witch, yes. As were my sister and I. Isambour was a squib, and fantastically bitter about it. When I say she was a witch, it was because of her behaviour."  
  
"The spurned wife?"  
  
"If you had seen her, you would have understood."  
  
"Unattractive?"  
  
She looked up at him with a long-suffering glance.  
  
"My father liked Agnes better than her and she couldn't stand it. She was bitter, vindictive, and jealous. She wanted to be queen, and she got her wish, but what did it get her? Nothing. Her reputation was ruined within the family. She played the part of the poor, spurned wife to the people, but she was nothing but a scheming bitch."  
  
"Oh, so you didn't like her much."  
  
He smirked as she sneered.  
  
"My mother died because of her. Isambour hated me and my siblings, because we were the children of the woman my father had actually wanted. And according to many, including my father, I look just like Agnes, which was fantastically irritating to her. My father always hated Isambour, especially after he was forced to take her back."  
  
"You have quite the interesting family tree."  
  
She smiled dryly.  
  
"Yes. My grandmother, by marriage, was Eleanor of Aquitaine, whom I'm named for. My father and Richard the Lionheart were stepbrothers."  
  
"Impressive.."  
  
Happy he’d managed to sufficiently annoy her enough for one afternoon as she scowled darkly at him, he smirked slyly, taking up his heavy book and sauntering off.  
  
  
~  
  
Elanor glanced up from her sketchbook as Draco wandered into the library.  
  
"Hi Elanor." He said absently, looking around.  
  
"Hello, Draco.."  
  
"Is my father around?"  
  
"No, I don't think so. He said something about meeting Rodolphus Lestrange earlier today."  
  
"Oh." Draco was silent for a long moment, seemingly mulling that information over. "Why are you here?"  
  
Her eyebrows knitted at his question.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, it's clear you aren't here to spend the holiday with me, given you were already here when I got home, and we're not really close enough to be spending holidays together. So you're here because of my father, aren't you."  
  
She stared at him for a long moment.  
  
"I... I suppose so. But not in the way you're thinking." She warned, her eyes flashing as Draco flushed at the thought.  
  
"Then what way is it?"  
  
She scowled. "At first, it was because he was blackmailing me."  
  
"What!" Draco's pale eyebrows disappeared into his hair at that.  
  
She shrugged elegantly. "No longer. I'm an old friend of the family, either way."  
  
"He doesn't usually make a habit of blackmailing his friends."  
  
"I said of the family. Not him."  
  
"Meaning me?"  
  
"Yes, but specifically I mean Abraxas."  
  
Draco squinted at her. "You're not old enough to have known him. He died years ago."  
  
"I'm aware." She replied, a sudden hardness seeping into her voice. "I know exactly when he died."  
  
"You couldn't have been more than six or seven when he died." Draco argued, and she sighed softly.  
  
"I'm older than you think I am, Draco."  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
She just smiled faintly, her gaze dropping back to her drawing as Draco stared at her in frustration.  
  
"I'll go ask my father.."  
  
"Go ahead. I doubt he'd tell you anything about me."  
  
"And grandfather?"  
  
She glanced up, then shrugged.  
  
"I'm not sure. He might."  
  
"I'll ask him, then."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Draco disappeared, only to return less than five minutes later.  
  
"He said you're a vampire, a French princess, and almost a thousand years old."  
  
Elanor sent him a glance, a sly smile ticking her mouth.  
  
"Did he?"  
  
Draco huffed, folding his arms.  
  
"Come on, Elanor. Tell me the truth."  
  
"What if that is the truth?"  
  
"Oh please. A vampire? That's a little too far fetched."  
  
She shrugged, smirking broadly, and he sighed heavily, stomping from the room.  
  
Her smirk dropped as he left, and she set her sketchbook aside, seeking out the hall of portraits.  
  
~  
  
"Abraxas..."  
  
His painted chair was empty, but she knew he was nearby.  
  
"Yes, my dear?" His voice was close, though she could see not his face.  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Really what?"  
  
"You should perhaps mind what you say to Draco."  
  
"He can handle it, Ella."  
  
"I'm not so sure of that. He's so like Lucius."  
  
"And Lucius has accepted it, has he not?"  
  
Abraxas finally stepped back into his portrait, eyeing her in amusement.  
  
"Draco thinks it's a joke, for now. No thanks to you. This is not a conversation I want to be having with him. In case you haven't noticed, the less people that know, the better."  
  
"Don't get all worked up about it, love." He drawled. "Draco will soon be back at school and you will only have to worry about my son."  
  
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Why should I have to worry about him?"  
  
Abraxas arched an eyebrow, gazing steadily at her.  
  
"My son is set in his ways, Miss Capet. He is currently disregarding his previous intent of reporting you because he is too busy fucking you. But his interest eventually will wear thin and he will turn his eye to others, and his old prejudices will again rise to the surface. That is not meant to insult you, my dear," he added, gauging her offended expression, "but rather simply explaining his mannerisms. He has always been that way. It is the reason his wife left him. He spent his attention on her until she grew to be too predictable for him. Once he learned all her secrets, she was no longer interesting. So he turned his gaze elsewhere, and Narcissa finds her attention from others, as well."  
  
"Once he learned all her secrets?"  
  
"How much of your life have you shared with him?"  
  
"Less than I told you, but I knew you for much longer than I have known him."

She gazed at him, suddenly fearful.

"Does he know of-- him? The only thing he could turn me in for is being unregistered, unless. He somehow discovered.. He knows I turned him."

"I do not know if he knows of that, but I would not put it past him to discover it, in time. Guard your secrets, Elanor. Lucius fights his battles not with brute force, but with words and knowledge. The more he knows about you, the easier it will be for him to hurt you."  
  
  
~  
  
Abraxas's words had hurt, but she knew he was right. She'd been blinded by Lucius's seeming change of heart, but in context, his sudden attentions towards her were nothing more than his attempts to get her to share details of her life with him. The more he knew, the more he had to use against her.  
  
The Christmas break would be over in less than a week. Could she return to Hogwarts? Or was that another thing Abraxas had been right about? Lucius enjoyed the easy access he had to her here. If she was at school, would he remember his original intentions, when his thoughts were unhindered by thoughts of sex?

Yes, he likely would.  
  
She would have to escape, hide somewhere. Change her identity. She'd done so before, it wouldn't be difficult to do so again.  
  
  
~  
  
  
"Draco?"  
  
The boy looked up as Lucius stood in the doorway of his room.  
  
"Have you seen Elanor?"  
  
"Not since this afternoon. She was in the library."  
  
  
Lucius's footsteps seemed to echo more than they usually did as he strode down the corridor. Something was different today.  
  
She wasn't in any of the usual places, so he began looking in more unusual places.  
  
Upon inspection of her room, he found her bed neatly made, the room tidy as always, but it took him a long moment to discover what was off.  
  
The curtains were open, he finally discovered. That was what was wrong.  
  
She always kept for sets of drapes drawn tightly over the windows, ensuring no light could get through. Why would they be open?  
  
He flicked open the closet door. It was completely empty.  
  
Dumbfounded, he glanced into the bathroom to make sure.  
  
All her possessions had been removed.  
  
She'd disappeared, just like that.  
  
  
"Lucius.." His father greeted him coolly as Lucius glared back at the portrait.  
  
"Where is Elanor?" He asked lowly, and Abraxas gazed at him for a long moment.  
  
"I believe she was in the library, last I saw."  
  
"Her possessions are all gone. She's disappeared."  
  
"Has she?" Abraxas asked, but not in surprise. He knew she'd gone.  
  
"Where did she go?"  
  
"I don't know. She didn't tell me."  
  
"Yes, she bloody well did. Tell me where she is."  
  
"Why? So you can go after her, have her arrested and put on trial? You have no reason for needing to find her other than your personal vendetta against her kind. Leave it, Lucius." He warned, and Lucius gritted his teeth.  
  
"I _will_ find her, father."  
  
"While I doubt that very much, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavours."  
  
"You do not." Lucius retorted, storming away.  
  
  
~  
  
  
Six months had passed and she'd remained safe. Paris had welcomed her with open arms, and she'd remained well hidden.  
  
Strangely, though, she'd heard nothing of Lucius. If he intended to expose her publicly, he'd been keeping a low profile so far. She'd subscribed to the Daily Prophet, keeping up on the events in England. The Aurors still searched for the escaped Sirius Black, but their searches were yielding little, and there was less and less in the news every day. Nothing else of interest was happening, and surely, if Lucius had said anything, it would make the front page.  
  
The sun was setting over Paris as she watched from her balcony, shrouded in a heavy robe and hat until the last of the sunlight had passed below the horizon. Here she was free to go out, unafraid of whom she might bump into. The night was excellent at hiding one's identity.  
  
Even after sunset, the streets of the city still bustled with life. She'd reconnected with a few old friends in the city, but only one of them was like her. Her friends from the last time she'd attended Beauxbatons were all quickly approaching ninety, most of them were no longer alive.  
  
There was a tap on the door and she rushed to open it, beaming at the man who stood outside.  
  
"Hello, Elanor, darling.."  
  
She launched into his arms, embracing him tightly. It had been nearly a century since she'd seen him last.  
  
"Hello, Lestat. It's been an awfully long time."  
  
"Too long." He smiled widely. "What on earth are you doing back here?"  
  
"Hiding." She replied, losing her smile, but she took the arm he offered and they went down to the street.  
  
"What are you hiding from?" He asked cautiously, and she sighed. "That's.. A long story."  
  
"I have all the time in the world to hear it.."  
  
"Perhaps later. First, let's go exploring. The city is such changed from the last adventure we had here."  
  
"As you wish, my Lady.."  
  
He grinned slyly when she sent him a look.  
  
"For God's sake, Lestat. How many times have we had that conversation?"  
  
"Clearly, not enough. I rather enjoy calling you that."  
  
"I know you do.." She muttered. "You've used it against me many a time."  
  
"You've enjoyed it, many a time, as well."  
  
"Oh dear. Let's not go about having that conversation at the moment, either."  
  
"Why?" He smirked.  
  
"Behave yourself." She chided. "We're in public."  
  
"That never stopped you before.."  
  
"Oh, hush, you."  
  
His laughter echoed through the street, where their presence did not go entirely unnoticed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Lestat, finally! I personally picture him as Stuart Townsend's Lestat rather than Tom Cruise, but, either way.


	8. In Planctum

_Palace of Fontainebleau, Paris, France, 1239_

  
  
The moonlight reflected off the smooth surface of the water, a mirror of glass, it would seem, rather than a fountain.   
  
A figure's reflection shimmered suddenly off of the water as footsteps paused beside her, and she glanced sideways to find Philip standing beside her, his hands clasped casually behind his back.   
  
_"Magnifique, n'est-ce pas?"_  
  
Her lips pursed thinly for a moment, following his gaze towards the moon.   
  
"It's my sun, now."  
  
He sighed, sitting beside her.   
  
"What has that man done to you, Elanor?"  
  
She glanced sideways at him, her eyes narrowed, then hunched her shoulders in defeat.   
  
"Papa didn't tell you?"  
  
"No."  
  
She sighed quietly. "Sauvageau was a disgusting old man. He always was watching me, when I was in the room. The night after that.. party, or whatnot, I've forgotten what it was for, he followed me back to my chambers. When I fought his advances, he bound me, and found a creature he'd-- enslaved, I suppose. He sicced it on me, forced it to turn me."  
  
"A vampire?"  
  
She nodded slowly, avoiding his gaze.   
  
"Apparently, fighting rape warranted a fate worse than death."  
  
He was silent for a long moment, looking bitter, before turning towards her and wrapping her suddenly in his arms.   
  
"What am I going to do without you, Philip?" She whispered, huddling against his firm chest. "I'll be this way forever. I cannot be killed, as I am no longer alive. I'm doomed to spend eternity wandering the earth. Papa hasn't got much time left. What happens when everyone I know is dead? I'll be alone, forever."  
  
"You won't be alone, Elanor. Stay with the family. Louis has a son, he'll be King eventually. Keep your story alive, and you will always have family."  
  
"I can't do that! They'll try to kill me, again." She cried.   
  
He sighed, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Then the only comfort I can offer you is the satisfaction of staying young and beautiful while Isambour withers away and dies old and ugly."  
  
She gave a startled snort of undignified laughter.  
  
"Yes, I suppose that is one bright spot-- she doesn't know, does she?" She demanded, and Philip arched an eyebrow.   
  
"I know not. Father might tell her, he might not. I think he's very much enjoying having you back, seeing mother in you."   
  
A sly smile began to pull at the corner of his mouth.   
  
"If she doesn't know, however.. Use it to your advantage, Ella."  
  
Her gaze turned sharply to him. "What are you suggesting?"  
  
"You know precisely what I'm suggesting. Where is Marie? I'm sure she'd be willing to help, we all hate her so."  
  
"Marie doesn't know, Philip."  
  
"But she must. She's missed you."  
  
"Philip, I cannot go around parading to the family that I'm here. The people will discover and you saw the riots that happened the last time."  
  
"What about Blanche?"  
  
Elanor paused. "What of her?" She asked, voice suddenly strained. The wife of their eldest brother, Louis, she was twelve years older than Elanor, and had taken it upon herself to raise her from infancy, when Isambour had refused to do so. The only mother she'd ever had.   
  
"Blanche mourns you still."  
  
"I--"   
  
She cut off, biting hard on her lip.   
  
"I cannot become reattached, Philip. It will make it all the harder when old age begins to take them."  
  
His face had paled slightly.   
  
"Let us not talk of death, but life. If you avoid them now, you will have little to remember them by." He grasped her hands in both of his. "Cherish the time you have with us, Elanor. Time marches on, and it will eventually take us from you. But our memories will remain, in you."  
  
She burst into tears at his words, and he cradled her tightly, his fingers carding through her hair.   
  
"Philip, I can't do this!"  
  
He'd run out of comforting words, and settled for simply holding her as she cried.   
  
"Philip? What do you fear most?" She asked quietly, finally out of tears, and he gazed at her for a long moment.   
  
“The future."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"It's the ultimate unknown. I haven't lived long enough to experience everything I want to, and I won't live long enough.” He pursed his lips. "What comes after this, Elanor? Twenty years from now? Longer? Inventions we cannot even begin to imagine at this point, will be normal. It's incomprehensible."  
  
Shaking his head slightly, he glanced away.   
  
They were silent for a long while, before he turned back to her.   
  
"Ella, I brought you back.. Will you do one thing for me?”  
  


"Anything."


	9. In Intellectu

_Poitiers, France, July 1994_

 

Sitting at a table tucked away in a corner of the cafe, Elanor glanced over the headlines of the Daily Prophet. Still, nothing of interest.  
  
The cafe was slow at such an hour, only a few other patrons were scattered around the tables. A few chattering girls sat at one across the floor, a second hosted a pair of businessmen, talking over a deal in low tones, and a third held a gentleman reading a newspaper.  
  
Boring day.  
  
She was quickly discovering that life hidden away was quite tedious. Nothing to do. Lestat visited sometimes, but he was busy with some endeavour or another, and was often out working. Besides, he adhered to the typical schedule, his waking hours blanketed in complete darkness, and slept when the sun was up.  
  
Elanor had hidden her face with an oversized sunhat, shading her skin from the sun with the help of a long coat and gloves. It was certainly cold enough for it, either way.  
  
The waitress had appeared again, bringing the girls their cheques, and stopped to speak with the businessmen.  
  
Elanor sighed, returning to skimming the articles of the paper, when a realisation made her pause, a crease appearing between her eyebrows in thought.  
  
A voice sounded over the murmurs of the businessmen and the giddy chattering of the girls, speaking to the waitress in a deep, dulcet tone. Had to be the man with the newspaper, the only one who hadn't spoken as of yet. He spoke perfect French, yet she could tell it wasn't his native tongue, not accented enough.  
  
And despite never having heard the words before, bloody hell did she recognise that voice.  
  
Peering carefully over the newspaper, her horrified suspicions were confirmed at the sight of blonde hair and grey eyes.  
  
Shit.  
  
There was no way to escape without him seeing her. She could apparate, but was it worth it? If he'd followed her this far, it was a safe bet he knew where she was living, as well. And then there was the law of not doing magic in front of muggles...  
  
Making up her mind, she folded up the newspaper, determined to make a run for it while he was distracted by the waitress. Slipping from her chair, she avoided his table as she made for the gate onto the street.  
  
He would follow, though. She knew he would.  
  
The streets had emptied somewhat around her, leaving her little hope of blending into the crowds.  
  
Fixing her hat, she walked faster, the apprehensive feeling of being watched still on her.  
  
There was no avoiding a confrontation. She doubted she could escape him even if she tried.  
  
Up the stairs of the building, down the hall of the flat. He was keeping his distance, but still he followed. She left the door unlocked. It wasn't as though something as mundane as a muggle lock would deter a wizard.  
  
She removed her hat and coat after drawing the drapes, the absence of sunlight sending the flat into sudden darkness.  
  
It wasn't long before the door creaked open.  
  
"That certainly didn't take you as long as I thought it would.."  
  
It would take his eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness, though she could already see him from her perch on the settee.  
  
"You certainly didn't put much effort into hiding yourself."  
  
"I could have been anywhere, though. Anywhere in the world."  
  
"You're predictable, Miss Capet. I knew you'd be here."  
  
"I shall have to try harder next time."  
  
"Will there be a next time?"  
  
"You know there will."  
  
She rose from the couch, approaching him slowly.  
  
"Why did you follow me?"  
  
"You disappeared so suddenly."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Why?"  
  
She was silent for a long moment, pausing just in front of him.  
  
"I was afraid of you."  
  
He inhaled sharply, not realising she'd been approaching him.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You use secrets as weapons. The longer I stayed, the more you knew about me, the more you had to use against me. I know you hate me, Mr. Malfoy. It was only a matter of time before you turned on me."  
  
"I had no intentions of doing such a thing." He replied, sounding offended.  
  
"How easily you lie, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
Her hand rested lightly on his chest, and his hand came up to cover hers.  
  
"I'm not lying."  
  
"It doesn't matter if you're lying or not." She replied after a moment. "It makes no difference to me. Hiding has become second nature. How short your mortal lifespans are. Forty years means little to me, yet to you, it's the rest of your life. I can hide from you until you no longer pose a threat to me."  
  
"You would hide yourself from me? After everything?"  
  
"You know I must."  
  
"You only think you must."  
  
He would never stop manipulating her. Even if, by some chance, he was actually sincere, it wouldn't matter. She would never be able to believe him.  
  
"Elanor.."  
  
She blinked back tears.  
  
She stood to gain little from this. But she had absolutely everything to lose.  
  
  
~

_Lijnden, Amsterdam, the Netherlands_

  
Her footsteps were quiet on the cobblestones as she slipped through the darkened streets, seeking him out. He'd moved to the Netherlands in recent years, why, she knew not, but he had little to hide from, and so he spent his time travelling the world. Free of fear.  
  
The address was scrawled on a scrap of parchment, his messy handwriting unchanged, and her gaze flitted over the row of flats.  
  
Finding the proper one, she tapped carefully on the door, waiting.  
  
A moment later, it opened a crack, before being thrown open, and she was pinned in a crushing embrace.  
  
"Elanor!"  
  
She gave a muffled reply, flailing until he let her go, ushering her into his small flat.  
  
"What on earth are you doing here?" She asked, turning her nose up at the meagre furnishings.  
  
He shrugged elegantly.  
  
"Seeing the world. It's fascinating how it's changed."  
  
"Hm. The centuries will bring great changes, yes."  
  
He grinned, pointing her to an armchair, and she sat with a huff.  
  
"What is wrong?" He asked, sprawling in the chair opposite hers and running his hand through his hair. He'd cut it short since she'd seen him last.  
  
"I'm afraid your secret might possibly have been discovered. Or at least suspected."  
  
The smile dropped abruptly from his face.  
  
"What? Who--"  
  
"Remember Abraxas Malfoy?" She waited for him to nod assent. "His son. Lucius."  
  
"Who is..?"  
  
"I met him at Hogwarts. He's.. An interesting man."  
  
"You're sleeping with him." He replied, matter of factly, and she glared at him.  
  
"Honestly, don't you even start."  
  
He shrugged. "Heard you were out with what's-his-name again. The one from Paris."  
  
"Lestat?"  
  
"Him, yes. De Lioncourt."  
  
"Reconnecting with old friends, that's all it is."  
  
"Good God, Ella. I'm not accusing you. Don't take offense to it."  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm just apprehensive."  
  
"Who's going to discover? I've supposedly been dead for centuries. How would the Malfoy prove it, even if he found out?"  
  
"He's a politician. He'd find a way."  
  
"Then I'll kill him before he gets the chance."  
  
"No!"  
  
He arched an eyebrow at her.  
  
"Oh, so you _do_ fancy him."  
  
"I do _not._ But you can't go around killing everyone that opposes you. Muggles are one thing, but a Pureblood wizard? He'd be missed. You'd go to Azkaban."  
  
"That would require finding me, first." He replied lazily, and she glared at him.  
  
"If you haven't noticed, we're both unregistered. That in itself is a crime. You'd go down for life for killing a Muggle."  
  
"Aren't you a wanted criminal, yourself?"  
  
"Not yet.."  
  
"Then what does it matter?"  
  
"It _matters,_ because if Lucius Malfoy finds out about you, he has all the evidence he needs to get me arrested! Turning a mortal is a crime, you know."  
  
"Even if it's voluntary?"  
  
"It doesn't matter. I still turned you."  
  
"Ah, well. It'll catch up to us eventually, you know."  
  
"I'd rather it be later than sooner." She muttered.  
  
"Not done having fun yet?"  
  
She smirked. "We haven't had all our adventures yet. You promised to show me the world."  
  
He smiled.  
  
"I know."  
  
Sitting up, he reached for her hand.  
  
"Where do you want to go?"  
  
"Somewhere Lucius Malfoy can't find me." She mumbled, and he wrapped her in his arms again.  
  
"Someday, Ella, we won't have to hide. This has happened before, it will happen again. And we will endure."  
  
  
"I know, Philip. I know."


End file.
